


Let Me Closer

by Saral_Hylor



Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cougar Feels, Drunk Sex, Hopeful Ending, I was aiming for one anyway, Jensen Feels, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, Somewhat explicit sexual content, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor/pseuds/Saral_Hylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two sides of the same story. </p>
<p>After Bolivia, when their worlds are turned upside down, it made sense that they'd turn to each other. They'd been best friends before. Now they were more. </p>
<p>But it wasn't enough. </p>
<p>It'd never be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Me Quit You

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is a cautionary measure only. 
> 
> First Story "Let Me Quit You" is from Jensen's POV, extreme implications of unrequited love. Possible dub-con. 
> 
> Second story "Closer" is from Cougar's POV, high level angst, but it does tie up a lot of loose ends from Let Me Quit You. More explicit sexual content. It was intended to be angsty smut, but ended up being far more angsty than smutty.   
> Based on the song Closer originally by NIN, but I listened to this cover version https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSsD-mD6bQg by a band called Ape BC

We weren’t anything before the crash. I’m still not sure if we are anything now. You were my best friend, so it made sense that we’d turn to each other. The shrinks would have had a name for it, some fancy-ass explanation, along the lines of reaffirming life, bonding with those closest to you. I figured we were well and truly fucked, so what was the harm in fucking each other.

It had to be a damn sight better than getting screwed over by Max.

Thing is, I didn’t take those pesky little things called feelings into account. I’ve had the biggest man crush on you since before I even joined the Losers. I’d see you around base, and you were just so badass, and awesome, and that fucking hat, and hell, I’m sure even straight men would let you fuck them if you asked nicely in Spanish.

I never expected it to manifest into something more.

I never thought that I’d get to the point where I was longing for you to like me back. As more than just a friend. I’m not the type who gets hung up on this sort of shit. Jess reckons I’m emotionally retarded, and that I barely understand the concept of friendship, so there’s no way I’d ever figure out what love was.

But this is it. Love is watching each other’s backs. It’s hacking into police records and deleting any evidence of that bar fight in Mexico. It’s handing over the candy from my MRE without you even having to ask. It’s letting you swoop in and steal the girl that had finally shown some interest in me. It’s sitting with you and talking, just talking about anything, to try and drown out the screams.

Incidentally, it’s letting you break into my room at night, drunkenly crawl into my bed and fuck me sideways. And I’m okay with that. We’re not army anymore, DADT doesn’t apply to us, and if you finally realised my ass was too much to resist, then, hey, I’m not about to argue. You’re one sexy motherfucker, and I want that. I’ve wanted that for ages. I’m all for some ass piracy. With you. Especially with you.

Only with you.

What I’m not okay with is you leaving afterwards. Just getting out of the bed and going back to your own room. Sure, maybe cuddling afterwards isn’t your thing, I’m not even sure if it’s my thing, but you could stick around for a good morning blow job once in a while.

Yet, for some reason, I keep letting you do it. Jess would call me a glutton for punishment. I think somewhere in my brilliant mind I’ve deluded myself into thinking that if I let this happen often enough, one night you might stay.

I feel a bit like a sad little school girl with her first crush, but I relish in that occasional lingering touch before you leave. Or the way you collapse on top of me and your mouth softens to lips instead of teeth against the back of my neck and shoulders.

Roque made the comment that it’s nice that I keep my clothes on when I’m hacking these days. Pooch noticed the bite marks even with my shirt on. I should probably borrow one of your scarves. He said something about it, some joke about the local women being wild cats. Trust me, I noticed the choice of words. I don’t care about the general ribbing, or how wrong the Pooch is about certain things. I guess what hurt the most, was you didn’t even get that smug look you get when one of the guys notices your latest conquest. I dared to look at you, and you were staring back at me, but it was so blank. I’m good at reading you, man, but I got nothing. I can’t understand you anymore.

I find myself hoping that you’d come to me on the nights you’re sober too, rather than having to get drunk before you seek me out. That maybe you’ll stay the night, and wake up in the morning and realise you want this to be more than it is too.

It’s not going to happen, though, is it?

I’m just hoping, because I’m a dumbass, and socially inept enough that I’d latch onto the first thing that appears to be affection. Jess is right, I’m just a masochist. One of these days I’ll have the guts to say no, to tell you I can’t do this anymore. But even when I gear myself up for it, pep talk myself for an hour or more before you find your way into my bed, I never get the words to come out. Instead I babble about computers, and video games that I haven’t played in months, and I let you fuck me so hard I’ll have to stand up at the factory tomorrow.

And it’s ridiculous how stupid I am, how even though I want to put an end to this, I miss you on the nights you don’t come find me. I want you there with me, in my bed, but it’s not sex that I crave, it’s just you. It’d be nice if we just spent time together like we used to, as friends, as more would be even better. But I don’t get to have that do I?

This isn’t us coping. This isn’t us learning to deal with the clusterfuck that was out last mission. This is you escaping, trying to forget for a moment. This is me taking on even more shit, and trying to make it better, letting you use me because I want to change the fact that you’re hurting so bad you don’t know how to handle it. I let you take that pain out on me, because I care, and I want to fix this, and I don’t know what else to do, and maybe letting you take me apart is the only way I can help you put yourself back together again.

I’m not strong enough to say no, because I want this to be something it isn’t. Because this is better than nothing, right? Because the fact that a few nights a week you seek me out and not some random from the bar has to mean something, right?

I might just be crazy enough to believe that.

Jess isn’t here for me to turn to, to tell me what I should do. So instead I rant inside my head and ramble complete bullshit out loud, and hope you’ll notice what this is doing to me and fix this fucked up thing we have. Because you could always see through all my bullshit and know what I’m really feeling even better than I usually do myself. Because you could always tell when I was hurting. I don’t know if you’ve lost that ability now, or if you simply don’t care enough to stop.

Guess I’ll just keep hoping that this will be something more. That you’ll stay the night. One more time to give you a chance to see that I love you. One more chance for you to realise you love me too.

Just one more time.

I said that last time. I’ll say it again the next time. I can’t stop this. I’m addicted. As much as I want to, I just can’t quit you.

 

* * *

 

You’re leaving again, and I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I keep promising myself one of these days I will put an end to this. I don’t want you to leave.

I feel the bed shift as you climb off it, and I know that despite the alcohol and all the post coital haze, you’re moving just as gracefully as you always do. Damn, I used to be jealous of that. Then for a long time all I could do was watch you and want; want you and everything that I thought was perfect about you. You’re still prefect. Just a perfect mess. But you’re not alone. I’ve got to be more fucked up than you.

It isn’t until I hear you doing up your belt that I dare to sit up and face you, fumbling for my glasses so I’ll at least have some hope of seeing you in the darkened room.

You’re standing there, right next to the bed, dressed and ready to leave, and I just don’t want you too. I’m sore, used, and that fucking unwanted, discarded, feeling is slowly setting back in, but when I look at you, all that’s going through my mind is _want, want, WANT!_ You’re a drug and the more I have to more I want.

Your eyes are fixed on my shoulder and I know that you’re looking at the newest bite mark, but I have no idea what you are thinking about. I used to hope that you were laying some kind of claim on me, because a, that’s fucking hot, and b, it meant you want me. But, hell, I don’t know anymore.

You turn to go and I find myself reaching out and grabbing your wrist. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep letting you go.

“Stay? Please?” I’ve wanted to ask that forever, but it’s still a shock that the words are finally out there in the open. I can almost see them just hanging there in the room, waiting to see what you’ll make of them.

Despite all your cool composure you flinch, at the words or the touch I’m not sure. We’ve been doing this for weeks and you obviously never expected me to ask. But you aren’t pulling away. You aren’t looking at me either, or agreeing to stay. But you aren’t pulling away, and maybe, just maybe…


	2. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refer to notes in first chapter.
> 
> This was supposed to be smut, but I kinda failed. Here's the end result though. 
> 
> This section is unbeta'd because I'm impatient and wanted to post both these parts together.

You're talking. You're always talking, even as I'm draped over your back, pushing into you. I want to go slower, be gentle, because you deserve to be taken care of, but it's been three days. It's been three days and the desperate buzz from the tequila I had to drink to come here makes it hard to stop my hips from snapping forward. I need to feel something, something other than the emptiness.

I need to feel you.

I can feel you, tight around me, underneath me, my hands on your skin, but it's not enough. The emptiness is still there. I want you to touch me, but I never let you, because I can't. You're still something that is whole and good in this world, and I'm not. Flawed, broken, empty. But you don't push me away, don't tell me to stop. You could. It's not like your helpless against me, if you didn't want this, I wouldn't be thrusting into you. I wouldn't have left a patchwork of bite marks and purple sucked bruises along the wing on your shoulder blade. You're letting me violate you. Letting me fuck you because it's the only way I can feel.

You're still talking, even with your face half buried in the pillow. You're talking, but you're not saying anything. I think you just need the noise. I need it. Your voice, that mindless chatter, the references that I rarely get, the techno-babble that might as well be an alien language. I need all of it; your voice is the only thing that drowns out the screaming. I need you in order to feel. Need you in order to breathe. In order to forget, to forget all the bad I've done. I need you to remember what it was like to believe.

I try to stay away, to not subject you to this anymore, because you're so much better than this. You don't need me crawling into your bed and touching you everywhere, opening you up, sliding inside you, but never letting you touch me. You don't need it, but you keep letting me. I know you're hoping for something more, something more than me inside you, my teeth against your skin. I can't give you that. I can't give you what you deserve because I have nothing left. I can't even give you the man I used to me, he's gone, dead in that helicopter crash.

I am nothing. And you are everything.

I want to give you everything I have left, but there is only my isolation, my hate, my lack of belief. Nothing worthy of you. There is is only my touch, my teeth and tongue, my fingers inside you, pushing and stretching until I can't wait any long, because I need to feel you, and I'm forcing myself inside you. Hoping I don't hurt you. Wishing I could do better.

Your words are trailing off until you're just breathing, panting, pushing back against me, gasping, moaning, and I'm pushing hard, because I need to be deep inside you. I want to keep pushing until there is nothing left of me, until I'm part of you. Then, maybe then, I might be able to feel all the time. It's impossible, but I keep going, unrelenting. It's violent, and I'm sorry. _Dios_ , I'm sorry. But I can't stop. Because I need to hear you, need your noise to block out the screaming that echoes inside my head. I need you to make this all go away. I'm trying to stitch myself back together, one unforgiving thrust after another. But the cost is too high.

I'm pulling you apart a little more each time I crawl into your bed and fuck you.

I'm tearing you into pieces.

Soon there will be nothing left of either of us except a pile of broken parts.

You're coming apart beneath me, biting back curses and trembling so that I can feel it vibrate all the way through me. I can feel so much. Too much. You're clenching around me and then I find that release, that momentary bliss, deep inside you.

Our breathing reverberates around the room, folding back upon us and then there is nothing. I'm hollow again, there is nothing left to feel.

But I still need you. I want to stay with you, to press my head against your chest and let your heartbeat overpower the screams. I need you, but I can't have you. You think you need me. I can see it in the way you watch me, hear it in the words you don't say. There is emotion there, devotion I'm not worthy of.

I have to stop this, stop coming back, but I need you and I'm too selfish to give this up.

I have to leave, I'm too tainted, soulless, to be around you. I have to leave before you look at me, because I know what that look will be. I can't see that pain. I can't drag you down with me, no matter how much I want you to keep me afloat.

I'm leaving, I always do, you always let me, but you're not this time. Your hand is around my wrist and you're asking me to stay.

You're touching me, looking at me and seeing what a mess I am, and still you want me. Everything tells me to pull away, to leave, to do what's best for you. But I can't. I'm powerless against you, because I want, I need, you, and everything you have to offer me. I'm selfish and I'll take it all and hope that I'll find something to give back. 

You're tugging me back into your bed, and I let you, I wanted to be there all along. I wanted to be closer to you. With you. Your arms are around me, your nose against my shoulder, and you're talking again. Always talking, but this time you're saying something. You're asking me not to leave, to stay with you, to come back to you. To stop pushing you away. To stop hurting alone. You're whispering that you want to help me, want to be more. That you need me too. That you love me.

The screams fade to a distant whimper. 


End file.
